


Adrift

by shawskankredemption



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawskankredemption/pseuds/shawskankredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>June the third is the only day he gives himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift

He knows the date without looking. He’s been expecting it for hours, even before the alarm taps to life. He looks to see it spelled out in those hard, cold little numbers. 

June the third. 

He blinks, once, then the breath is stolen from him, before he could even think to keep it safe in his lungs. For a moment, he allows himself to drown. 

With a few more seconds, reason edges in. Don’t let it hit yet. If you let it hit now you won’t get through the day. 

The air is restored, quietly. He waits for it to ease, and struggles not to gasp for it as he claws his way out from between the sheets. Levelling the heel of his right hand against his chest, he reaches the other out for his glasses. He blinks, steadily, and things come into focus, one by one.  
The plastic box where he keeps his medication. The glass of water, the surface of which is now coated by a thin film of dust. 

Nineteen years. 

He spares himself a glance at the photograph. 

After a few moments, everything has mercifully, temporarily passed. He is able to stand up, his toes sinking into the carpet. He showers, gets dressed and reminds himself. 

Just get through the day. 

\- -   
‘Michael Dukakis. Michael Dukakis.’  
He must say the name fifteen times, playing with those foreign sounds in his teeth. The words become softer. ‘Michael Dukakis. Democrat.’ His eyes are fixed on that eerie blue of the television, and the last time he says it you lean forward to repeat it against his lips.   
‘Gustavo,’ you feel him laughing, trying to lean away half-heartedly, ‘I’m trying to learn. Don’t make fun.’ 

\- - 

The smile aches long before eleven o’clock, and he burns himself on the coffee he’s serving for a customer. A patch of skin rears up on his hand, hot and red.   
‘Y’all right, Gus?’ Cynthia is bright with concern.   
‘I’m fine, just a little careless. I might need to work at the desk for the rest of the day.’  
‘No problem, boss.’  
In the solitude of the office, he has to reach a hand out onto the shelf to keep himself from falling. He leans back on the numbers, counting slowly up to three, in and out, in measured time. When he reaches the surface, he checks his phone again. Thankfully, there’s nothing.   
Over the course of an hour, he watches the sky outside surrender to grey. 

——  
‘Look at this. You leave this place like filth. I’m sick of you, Maximino. I’m sick of you.’  
‘You’re not sick of me. You’re mad. Don’t say that. Come here.’  
‘I won’t…’  
‘Come here.’  
—-

It is too much for him by five o’clock, because he thinks of the apple. Nineteen years ago he’d fought his way home from that terrible place and managed to get through the door, and the first thing he saw was that apple. Sitting on the bench, browned and marked with Max’s teeth. How he’d fallen down and wailed into the carpet, the same carpet dirtied by Max’s shoes, and he wanted to know why it couldn’t have been him, because he’d rather it was him instead. 

And June the third is the only day he gives himself. Because this is when he remembers how that felt for the first night, to be almost swallowed by the emptiness of his own bed, and how he cried until he was hollow and dry and cracked open. And it’s not fair, because nobody is supposed to have their heart torn out and keep moving on alone. 

 

So he allows himself this one day of bitter, paralysing grief. Because for the rest of the year, he coldly tries to make it right.


End file.
